Flashback – 3 Years Ago
The first time Chen Yixuan saw her, she was standing outside the gates of the Chen estate with a paper bag clutched in her hands, her black hair caught in the early spring breeze, and a gentle, hesitant smile on her lips.
She looked small in front of the towering gate—so out of place, so soft. Yet she stood there, like she belonged.
He had just returned from university abroad, already buried in the weight of a legacy he didn't ask for. The name Chen came with power, expectations, and chains that were not easily shaken off. So when his grandfather summoned him home and declared, with all the finality of an emperor, that he was to marry Ye Mei—the daughter of a woman who had once saved his life—he had scoffed.
"Marry her?" Yixuan repeated, a sharp laugh escaping his lips. "Because she saved you once, decades ago?"
His grandfather's gaze was firm, aged but unshakable. "She saved me from certain death. This marriage is how we repay that debt."
Yixuan had clenched his jaw. "There are other ways."
"There is no better way," the old man said. "You don't have to love her. You just have to honor the promise."
And so, he returned. No choice. No voice. A name, a girl, and a duty.
That morning, as his car pulled up to the grand courtyard, his driver nodded toward the gate. "She's been waiting," the man said. "Said she wanted to see the lily garden."
Yixuan stepped out, his eyes already cold.
And there she was. Ye Mei.
Wearing a soft blue dress, her fingers brushing gently over the ironwork of the gate as if trying to feel its age. When she saw him, her eyes lit up—not with excitement, but with the quiet resolve of someone who knew she wasn't welcome, yet came anyway.
"Chen Yixuan," she greeted, voice delicate but clear. "I'm sorry if I came too early. Your grandfather said I could visit the lilies. My mother loved them."
"You're not here for the flowers," Yixuan replied, tone clipped. "You're here because of a bargain made before either of us had a say."
Ye Mei blinked. "I know."
"Then why are you smiling?" he asked coldly.
She looked down. "Because I'd rather start this with kindness than resentment."
He didn't reply.
As he walked away, he muttered under his breath, "You don't belong in this world."
But she caught it. She heard every word.
And she didn't chase him. She simply whispered, "I never did."
---
The weeks that followed were suffocating.
Ye Mei visited more often. Not to impose, but because she was told to. She attended tasteless wedding meetings, sat through long dinners with people who looked at her like she was charity, and never once lost her composure.
Yixuan made sure to keep his distance. But he noticed her.
He noticed how she helped the gardener replant with her own hands. How she brought tea to the elderly guards standing in the heat. How she wrote letters in the courtyard, her handwriting elegant, her head tilted in thought.
She never demanded his time. Never asked why he ignored her. Never cried when he brushed past her like air.
But she always said "Goodnight, Yixuan" at the end of each day—whether he was near enough to hear or not.
And somehow, he always did.
---
One night, unable to sleep, he played the piano in the empty music hall. Moonlight spilled over the keys. He hadn't expected anyone to be awake.
But there she was.
Standing at the door in silence, her figure backlit by the glow from the corridor. She didn't speak. Just listened.
He stopped abruptly. "Are you lost?"
She shook her head. "No. I heard the music. It's beautiful."
He didn't answer.
She took a cautious step closer. "My mother once heard your grandfather play. She said he used to play lullabies for your grandmother."
He said nothing.
Ye Mei sat beside him without touching the keys. "You don't have to hate me."
"I don't hate you," he said stiffly. "I just don't want this."
"I know," she said quietly. "But I'm here anyway."
There was no accusation in her tone. Just fact.
"You'll never mean anything to me, Ye Mei," he said after a long silence.
"I don't need to mean something to you right away," she whispered. "But I'll still wish you goodnight."
And she stood, bowed her head, and left.
---
The wedding came too soon.
She wore white. No diamonds, no veil. Just a simple cheongsam-style dress with embroidered lilies. Her hands trembled slightly when she reached for his, but she looked him in the eye and smiled. Brave.
He recited his vows like an actor reading lines. He slipped the ring on her finger with no emotion.
He didn't kiss her.
Just a cold touch of lips to her cheek.
Later that night, she stood with her suitcase in the hallway outside the master bedroom. Yixuan didn't meet her eyes.
"You'll sleep in the guest room," he said flatly.
She nodded.
He turned his back and shut the door.
But through the silence of the walls, he heard her whisper.
"Goodnight, Yixuan."
Even then, she still said it.
And though he never responded, every night he waited for it. Craved it, even.
But he never told her that.
Not until it was too late.